


when all those shadows almost killed your light

by manohman (markohmark)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: (Obviously), Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a surprising amount of fluff considering the au, people will die?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11934339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markohmark/pseuds/manohman
Summary: It’s not--it’s not love, and Donghyuck isn’t even sure if he can call it like, but it’s something that makes his heart pulse recklessly in his ribcage. He feels hopeful, the same way Mark’s eyes had shined in the dying night. It cuts into the numbness he had been feeling; it makes him want to live, to feel this again and again.(alternatively, mark and donghyuck are tributes in the 73rd hunger games, and fall in love as they prepare to die)





	1. hold onto this lullaby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catalystkrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catalystkrish/gifts).



> yes, there is character death eventually. i'll post separate tws for each chapter, stay safe~
> 
> title comes from "safe and sound" by taylor swift !
> 
> hope u enjoy <3

Everyone knows who Mark Lee is. In the training room, the whispers seem to follow him like an audible shadow, tributes sneaking glances and sharing bits of gossip with their fellow allies.  
  
Donghyuck doesn’t have any allies. At the camouflaging station, he paints tree bark onto his left wrist and listens to the conversation closest to him. He can’t pick out much, just a fragment of  _so ugly, isn’t as handsome as his brother._  
  
Donghyuck scoffs at that silently. Mark Lee may not be as earth-shatteringly beautiful as Taeyong Lee, victor of the 70th Hunger Games, but he isn’t anything close to ugly.  
  
Between strokes of the paintbrush against his arm, Donghyuck looks over, trying to observe. Everyone had seen the Reaping, of course, and the video of Mark’s distraught mother crying out for her son while Taeyong Lee sobbed silently. It’s nothing like seeing him up close.  
  
Mark has an open, innocent face, with bright eyes and perfectly shaped eyebrows. The tributes from One and Two approach him, of course, but he seems to reject every ally that comes his way.  
  
It’s an interesting diversion, at least for a couple of minutes, but Donghyuck’s mind keeps circling back to the fact that he might die, no, he’s going to die, in a couple of weeks. Everything seems so pointless, even the beauty of a fellow tribute.

 

  
  
Jinhwan, of course, doesn’t exactly appreciate Donghyuck’s attitude. As Donghyuck and Hyerin eat their dinner silently, Jinhwan gives them advice. Hyerin listens carefully, and Donghyuck tries his best to shut Jinhwan out.  
  
Jinhwan’s trying his best to be as helpful as possible, but he’s already given up on both of them. Donghyuck can see it in his eyes, in the way he encourages them to try every Capitol food, in the way he looks at them with resignation the same exact way Donghyuck’s family had viewed him in the days after the reaping.  
  
It makes Donghyuck feel like he’s a dead man walking, like his soul’s already buried in a grave and his body is walking around without it, empty. It makes him feel hollow.  
  
After dinner, he can’t take it. Hyerin and Jinhwan settle on the couch to watch the latest news, or something, but after dinner Donghyuck walks past them and out of the apartment where they’re staying.  
  
Jinhwan catches his wrist before he can step outside. It still has the gritty remains of camouflage paint on it, and Jinhwan looks down at his hand with distaste before wiping it on his pants.  
  
“What is it?” Donghyuck asks, impatient. He wants to leave, to get away, to be anywhere but here, to be dead already.  
  
“Rooftop’s the only place that can’t be seen,” Jinhwan says, frowning. Probably disappointed that Donghyuck’s close to breaking down. He looks almost sad, but more than that, pitying. “Use the stairs.”  
  
“Fine,” Donghyuck bites out, whipping his hand out of Jinhwan’s grip. It isn’t Jinhwan’s fault--in fact, it’s far from it. If Donghyuck was back in District 4, back among the beaches and fishing boats and sand, then he would’ve loved Jinhwan. Probably would’ve called him  _hyung_  and nagged him about his height and pulled him into pranks, the same way Donghyuck always did with Taeil-hyung and Jinwoo-hyung.  
  
In contrast to the sleek, computerized elevator, the stairs are hard to find, musty, and dirty. Donghyuck wonders who would even use these stairs, until he spots two Avoxes heading down the stairs silently, arms laden with trays and plates. It’s a good metaphor for the Capitol, Donghyuck thinks. Shining on the outside with something rotten at its core.  
  
He makes it to the rooftop and opens the door quickly, surprised to find Mark Lee of all people sitting on a ledge, feet dangling.  
  
Donghyuck makes his way over silently, choosing a spot on the edge of the building that isn’t too far or too close from Mark.  
  
“Nice view, isn’t it?” Mark asks offhandedly. He’s got his fingers in his mouth; Donghyuck will bet anything that he’s chewing on his nails.  
  
Donghyuck tears his gaze away from Mark and looks out at the skyline. Panem at night is beautiful, glittering, and fake.  
  
“I’ve seen better,” Donghyuck says absently. “Back at home, uh, District 4.” This artificial, glimmering city is nothing compared to sunset on the beach back home.  
  
Mark gives him a long, searching look. “Why’re you up here then?” he asks. He removes fingers from his mouth but taps them agitatedly against his thighs instead.  
  
Donghyuck shrugs. “The only place without cameras,” he says.  
  
Mark laughs at that, a high-pitched, wheezy sound that is bizarre enough to bring a tentative smile to Donghyuck’s lips. “As if,” he says. “There’s no place without a camera.”  
  
“In Four, we have the ocean to protect us,” Donghyuck says. Had, Donghyuck thinks, past tense, past tense, because he isn’t going to make it. “Just the ocean, and the beach.”  
  
Mark sighs. “That sounds nice,” he says. “I don’t--I can’t even remember what it’s like, to live without being watched.”  
  
Donghyuck startles at that. He had forgotten, for a split second, that he had been talking to Mark Lee, brother of Taeyong Lee, of District 3. For a split second, all Mark had been was another doomed tribute, ready to have their face etched into the sky of the Arena when the time would come.  
  
“Oh,” Donghyuck says, fumbling. “Because, because of your brother, right?” He winces at himself. Back home, he’d been able to charm anyone, filled with exuberant energy and pranks; back home, he wouldn’t be faltering for words like someone who forgot how to speak. But right now, all Donghyuck’s got is  _you’re gonna die you’re gonna die you’re gonna die_  looping through his head on repeat. Right now, all he’s got is fear to keep him running.  
  
“Yeah,” Mark says. He reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a small notebook and pen. “Actually, I was writing before you got here, so--might as well.” He flips open to a new page and begins to write, pen scribbling over lines and lines on the page.  
  
Donghyuck closes his eyes and listens to it for a moment. If he concentrates hard enough, he could pretend that the cars on the street below them were waves beating against the sand and that it was his sister writing at her desk, and that he was home.  
  
Forget it. He opens his eyes after a couple of seconds, feeling disgusted with himself. As if he could even try to pretend that the growl of the cars resembled the gentle, powerful sounds of the ocean. As if he could even try to pretend that he was home, even for a bit.  
  
“What do you write?” Donghyuck calls out, hoping for a distraction. The pen-scratching stops.  
  
“My thoughts, mostly,” Mark says. “Nothing--it’s nothing much.”  
  
Donghyuck doesn’t know why anyone would ever put their thoughts on paper, where they could be seen by anyone, where they could be real. Perhaps other people didn’t think of things that scared themselves.  
  
“I burn it after I write in it,” Mark adds. Maybe not, then. Donghyuck nods and doesn’t add anymore; neither does Mark.  
  
They stay awake together until the sun rises.  
  


 

  
The days pass and nothing changes, except for the slight ratcheting up of fear. Donghyuck goes up to the roof again after that first night, but Mark isn’t there; he doesn’t really bother making the trek after that.  
  
The tributes have their performance evaluations in front of the game-makers, and Donghyuck gets a six. It’s middling, it’s average. No one gives him a second glance after the scores are broadcasted, which is just how Donghyuck likes it.  
  
The tributes from One and Two get the highest scores, as usual; so does the girl from Seven and the boy from Nine. No one’s really paying attention though. Instead, everyone whispers about how  _Mark Lee only got four, about what he possibly could’ve done,_ about how  _he’s obviously got no chance, poor Taeyong--_  
  
Donghyuck doesn’t pay attention to any of it. His mind drifts, from the songs he used to sing to the friends he used to have to the death he will inevitably face, but like iron particles clinging to a magnet his brain stubbornly latches onto Mark Lee.  
  
Hecatches himself staring, from time to time, watching the slope of Mark’s neck, the perfect curve of his eyebrows, the openness of his face as he laughs with his mentor--his own brother--and smiles. Donghyuck isn’t foolish; he knows what he’s doing, what he’s feeling. A simple infatuation to distract his mind from pondering death.  
  
But sometimes, he catches Mark looking back.

 

  
  
Jinhwan pulls them in for a hushed bit of advice the morning of their interviews.  
  
“Be yourselves,” he says. He looks at Donghyuck, reconsidering. “Or be charming, at least. This is your last chance to gain important sponsors before the--before it starts.”  
  
Hyerin nods anxiously, then heads off to her prep team to get ready. Donghyuck is about to do the same when Jinhwan catches him by the sleeve.  
  
“Sing, during your interview,” Jinhwan says. He looks remarkably solemn, more serious than he’s ever been, but more than that, he looks--hopeful. “Jinwoo used to talk about you, about your voice.”  
  
“You knew Jinwoo-hyung?” Donghyuck asks, surprised. Somehow, the fantasy of calling Jinhwan  _hyung_  on the beach seems closer than it was before.  
  
Jinhwan’s face closes off, and he removes his hand from the sleeve of Donghyuck’s shirt. “It was a long time ago,” he says. “Now--now I’m a victor, and everything’s different.” He shrugs helplessly, then straightens up. “Now, off you go.”  
  
Doyoung and the rest of his prep team are quick to fuss over him, plucking at the hair between his eyebrows and shoving him through a series of baths. Doyoung’s rabbit ears twitch excitedly as he talks about what Donghyuck’s going to wear--”knowing Ten, it’ll be marvelous,” he promises--and Donghyuck tries as hard as he can to not stare at Doyoung’s ears or carrot-orange hair.  
  
Jisung and Chenle are just as foreign to him, even if their modifications are more… human looking. Jisung’s got a shock of cyan-colored hair and Chenle’s is a more gentle lavender. They look to be about a year or two younger than Donghyuck, but as children of the Capitol they have the freedom to gossip and giggle freely about the upcoming games. Donghyuck finds himself swinging between envy and disgust every time he overhears one of their vapid conversations.  
  
“Have you seen the tributes from One and Two?” Chenle asks, in the middle of massaging a scrub onto Donghyuck’s heels. He’s not sure why they’re doing such a thing--his feet will be covered with shoes, right?--and he’s distracted by the sensation before he nods.  
  
Jisung and Chenle sigh in unison. “They’re so cute,” Jisung says.  
  
Donghyuck’s eyebrows furrow. “Who?” he asks incredulously. He hadn’t looked too much at the tributes from One and Two, too afraid to make eye contact.  
  
“The girls,” Jisung says.  
  
“The guys,” Chenle says.  
  
“Boys, get back to work,” Doyoung chides. He bites on the inside of his cheek, and looks even more like a rabbit than before. “We need to be ready in ten minutes.”  
  
“Ten for Ten,” Chenle mutters, and Jisung snickers along with him.  
  
Ten is probably Donghyuck’s favorite person from the Capitol. He looks wholly human, for one, with his natural black hair and kind, unadorned eyes. The only accessory he has is his hooped earrings, which glimmer in the harsh light of the prep room.  
  
In his arms he’s carrying the clothes Donghyuck is to wear. It’s a simple, red sleeveless tunic, soft to the touch.  
  
“I talked to Jinhwan, and we agreed that you needed to look gentle and powerful,” Ten says, helping Donghyuck into the tunic. It falls to his knees, leaving his legs bare, feet clad in a pair of matching sandals.  
  
Donghyuck shrugs. “I don’t think I’m either, really,” he says, smoothing the tunic and watching himself in the mirror. His arms and legs look dark and tan next to Ten’s pale skin, marked with scars from scratching overzealously at mosquito bites and plucking out splinters after long days helping out on his father’s boat. His hair is his favorite; Doyoung added a dye, making it a ruddy red-brown instead of his natural dark brown hair.  
  
“Sometimes, it isn’t about who you are,” Ten says gently, fixing a stray lock of hair. “Sometimes it’s about what you come across as.”

 

  
  
Donghyuck sits through the interviews stiffly at first, anticipating his own. Jeno from One smiles, and the crowd screams. Chaeyoung from One talks about her mother, who was a past victor. Jaemin from Two tries to look as cute as possible; it works. Tzuyu from Two wears a scandalously short dress.  
  
When it’s Mark’s turn for an interview, the whole crowd hushes. Mark walks onto the stage slowly, each step deliberate and careful. He’s dressed in an all white suit, shining under the stage lights.  
  
The first word that comes to Donghyuck’s head is  _angel._  The second one is  _martyr._  
  
The interview itself is a blur; Donghyuck doesn’t pay much attention to the words until Boa Kwon leans forward, a questioning look on her face.  
  
“Mister Lee,” she begins, “How did you feel, getting reaped when you were the brother of a Victor?” By the look on her face, Donghyuck can tell that this question was planned.  
  
Mark’s response doesn’t seem any less real because of it, though. He exhales shakily, biting down on his lower lip, and Donghyuck is reminded of the way he chewed on his nails up on the rooftop.  
  
“I felt terrified,” Mark says. “But I’ll win, I have to, for--for my brother.” His voice is resolute, even as his hands shake in his lap.  
  
The audience watches in awe as Mark cries silently, each tear dripping agonizingly slow down his cheek. Donghyuck’s eyes don’t stray from him, even as he walks down from the stage.  
  
Donghyuck’s own interview is fine. Nothing special, really. He makes jokes about fishing and going to the beach, and Boa Kwon is good at keeping up the banter.  
  
Then, Boa asks, “What did you like to do with your free time, back in Four?”  
  
Donghyuck swallows, then cracks a smile. “I liked to sing,” he says. He looks out at the crowd, eyes skimming across Jinhwan and Mark and Hyerin.  
  
“Would you like to sing now, for us?” Boa asks, smiling encouragingly. The crowd cheers.  
  
Donghyuck feels like he’s been anesthetized as he stands up. Like there’s no feeling in his hands, in his body. Like his soul’s finally left him for good.  
  
Heopens his mouth and sings the lullaby that his mother would sing to him, that her mother sang for her, on and on. His voice is wavery, at first, so he shuts his eyes and tries to remember home. The tanned, wrinkled skin of his father’s face as he squints against the sun on a fishing boat; the gentle laugh of his sister as she urges him out to play; the sweet, innocent way Seungkwan-hyung and him had held hands and sung harmonies together in the secret garden they found. He misses home so much, and this is the first time he’s fully allowed himself to feel it, this all-consuming grief for a place he will never see again.  
  
Donghyuck opens his eyes as he finishes the last note, gaze catching on the tributes in the audience. A slim boy--from Eight, maybe--has his face in his hands, hiding tears. Hyerin is mouthing the words to herself, no doubt recognizing the lullaby from her own childhood. And Mark--Mark is looking at him with unabashed wonder in his eyes, as if he had seen something magical.  
  
The audience bursts into applause. Donghyuck takes his seat, swallowing dryly.  
  
“I liked your singing,” Tzuyu from Three tells him, shyly. She tugs at the hem of her dress, pulling it downwards, and Donghyuck wonders if what she had appeared to be--cute, flirtatious, pretty--is not who she really is.  
  
“It was amazing,” Hyerin says from the other side of him, getting up to go on stage.  
  
Donghyuck tries his best to listen along to the rest of the interviews, but they all blend into the same thing. Pretty, scared girls and boys, trying to charm; those without appealing features go for shows of strength.  
  
The only other interview that sticks out for him is the tribute from Eight, Renjun Huang, who wears hand-weaved fabric from his district, voice soft and speech succinct. He seems like the antithesis of the Capitol up on stage, his plain, gentle manner juxtaposed against Boa’s garish outfit and outgoing personality.  
  
Renjun bows before he leaves the stage, expression solemn. The applause is muted, but Donghyuck claps the loudest.

 

  
  
Mark’s outfit is all the prep team talks about when they’re undressing Donghyuck.  
  
“All white, just like Taeyong,” Doyoung muses, in between scrubbing Donghyuck’s back and his shoulders. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”  
  
Donghyuck thinks that that’s a bit much, coming from a Capitol citizen with rabbit ears, but he remains silent. The question is meant for Jisung and Chenle, anyway.  
  
“Johnny  _always_  goes for making a statement,” Jisung enthuses. “It’s  _exciting._ ”  
  
“He lacks the technicality of Ten’s pieces, though,” Chenle says thoughtfully. Donghyuck resists the urge to roll his eyes.  
  
He’s ready to bolt as soon as he’s back in his own clothes, but Doyoung stops him before he exits.  
  
“Ten wants to wish you luck,” he says. “You’ll wait.” It isn’t a question, and Doyoung looks more serious than Donghyuck’s ever seen him.  
  
Donghyuck only stands around for a couple of moments before Ten walks in, looking flushed and proud.  
  
“Donghyuck,” he says, opening his arms for a hug. Donghyuck obliges willingly, closing his eyes. It feels like the first warm touch he’s felt since leaving Four, and he melts into it the way he’d dive into the waves back home.  
  
“Donghyuck,” Ten repeats, whispering into Donghyuck’s hair. “Go--do your best, okay?” He sighs, and Donghyuck hears it buzzing against his skull. “You remind me of Johnny so much, sometimes.”  
  
Donghyuck withdraws from the hug, giving Ten a questioning glance. “The designer, right?”  
  
Ten nods, eyes fond. “Be safe, okay?” he asks. He tucks a piece of hair behind Donghyuck’s ear, the same way he had done before the interview.  
  
Donghyuck doesn’t reply, just shrugs with as much apathy he can muster.

 

  
  
The last night before the Games, Donghyuck makes his way up to the roof. Mark’s sitting on a ledge, a perfect mirror of the way he was two weeks ago.  
  
Two weeks ago, was it? It seems so long ago. It seems like yesterday.  
  
“Nice interview,” Donghyuck greets, taking a seat on the ledge. This time, he sits close to Mark. Their thighs touch.  
  
Mark shrugs, pen in his hand. He doesn’t bother to put away his notebook; it isn’t like Donghyuck can read much of his chicken scratch in the dark anyway. “Nice singing,” he counters.  
  
Donghyuck copies his shrug.  
  
“Seriously,” Mark insists. “The way you sounded, when you were singing--” he breaks off. “I’ve been trying to find the words to describe it,” he gestures towards the notebook in his lap, “but--it’s hard.”  
  
Donghyuck nods towards Mark’s notebook. “Can I see?” he asks. Half-unsure, he cracks a smile and leans a little close. “What were you writing about me, Mark Lee?” It’s been awhile since he’s been this teasing, this forward, but Donghyuck slips into it the way he would put on his favorite old sweater.  
  
Mark blushes, visible even under the dim light, but doesn’t move away. “Sure--sure, you can,” he says, fumbling for words. It’s cute, and Donghyuck has to remind himself that Mark is a year older than him.  
  
Whatever light-heartedness Donghyuck might’ve felt for the slightest of moments leeches away as he tries to make out words.  _Like the world’s going to end,_ one phrase says.  _Like the death of someone you loved more than yourself,_ says another.  _Like the nightingale that wanted to be set free,_  another one reads. _The most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard_ is the last one Donghyuck can make out before everything blurs in front of his eyes, and oh, he’s tearing up.  
  
Donghyuck hands the notebook back and blinks rapidly, trying to keep tears from falling. One escapes, rolling down his cheek, and Mark wipes it away quickly with a brush of his thumb.  
  
“I know,” Mark says, shaking his head ruefully, “It’s a little dumb, but--”  
  
“No, me too,” Donghyuck cuts him off. “I kept on thinking about--how to describe the way you were, on stage. In front of the Capitol.” He’s silent for a moment, trying to gather his words; sure, he can be witty, but being earnest like this seems so much more difficult. “You looked pure, like the white flag of surrender, like,” Donghyuck swallows, “a martyr.”  
  
Mark nods at that. “We planned it that way,” he says. “For people to look at me, and pity me, and hate the cruelty of the world we live in.”  
  
Donghyuck stiffens at that. Of course it was planned. Of course it was all a plight for sponsorship money and favor among the Capitol elites.  
  
“I’m going to die anyways, right,” Mark continues. Donghyuck remains rigid and tense, but for different reasons. “Might as well make use of it, if I can.”  
  
“You’re not--you aren’t...” Donghyuck begins. He’s not quite sure of how to finish.  
  
Mark reaches out blindly with one hand until he makes contact with Donghyuck’s palm, grabbing it tightly. “My brother--he’s always protected me, provided for me, cared for me like no one else,” he says. “But this. This is the one thing he can’t save me from.”  
  
Donghyuck is reminded, again, of the terrible Reaping video they had broadcasted over and over again, that fifteen second clip of Taeyong Lee and his mother--Mark’s mother--crying that commentators simpered over.  
  
“Don’t you have a shit ton of sponsors?” Donghyuck asks. He and the rest of the tributes had assumed as much, at least.  
  
Mark gives him an incredulous look, letting go over his hand. “You saw my score,” he says. “I’m--I’m soft, and I’m weak, and my words and my coding can’t save me in the arena.” Mark recites these flaws as if he’s heard them, word for word, in conversation with someone. It’s enough to make Donghyuck’s heart stutter in his chest painfully.  
  
“Coding?” Donghyuck asks.  
  
“District 3,” Mark says. “Electronics.”  
  
They don’t say much for a good couple of minutes before Mark breaks the silence with a short, derisive laugh.  
  
“It’s just, it’s--I’m not even sad I’m going to die, it’s just there’s so much I haven’t done, you know?” Mark says.  
  
Which sounds an awful lot to Donghyuck like being sad about dying, but what does he know? Sadness is the same to him in any form.  
  
“I haven’t finished school, haven’t gotten a job, haven’t even--haven’t even had a first kiss,” Mark adds, looking bashful at the last part.  
  
Donghyuck snorts at that. “You? Never?” he asks incredulously. “You’re all the girl tributes talk about.” It’s about as close to saying  _you’re incredibly handsome_  as Donghyuck will allow himself to get.  
  
Mark shifts uncomfortably, and scooches away from Donghyuck so that their thighs are no longer touching. Instantly, Donghyuck craves his body heat.  
  
“I’m not,” Mark says, faltering. “For me, it isn’t--not with girls.” He looks frightened, afraid of what Donghyuck might think.  
  
“Oh,” Donghyuck says. He’s even more nervous than he was before the interview in front of the Capitol audience. “For me it’s, it’s both.”  
  
He’s not sure what else to call it, the way he felt the same fluttery feelings when Seungkwan-hyung took his hand and intertwined their fingers and when Mina had given him his first kiss, all those years ago. Donghyuck supposes they would have a name for it in the Capitol, the way they do with everything else.  
  
“Yeah?” Mark asks breathlessly. He scooches toward Donghyuck again, so that their thighs are pressed together. He leans forward, eyes bright and so, so hopeful.  
  
“Yeah,” Donghyuck breathes. He bridges the gap between them, and leans in to kiss Mark.  
  
It’s not--it’s not love, and Donghyuck isn’t even sure if he can call it like, but it’s something that makes his heart pulse recklessly in his ribcage. He feels hopeful, the same way Mark’s eyes had shined in the dying night. It cuts into the numbness he had been feeling; it makes him want to live, to feel this again and again.  
  
Mark pulls away and smiles gently. “Thank you,” he whispers.  
  
Donghyuck reaches out with one hand and strokes a thumb over Mark’s perfect eyebrow. “It was nothing,” he says.  _It was everything._  He snatches his hand back from Mark’s face as soon as he realizes what he’s doing.  
  
Mark’s eyes seem to shutter at that, his brows furrowing slightly. “I suppose--to me, it was something,” he says. Then he slides off the ridge, leaving the roof quickly.  
  
Donghyuck wants to protest, to voice every thought that is running through his head, but the words die in his throat. He stares after Mark, watching the door long after he leaves. Eventually, Donghyuck begins to wonder if it was all just a figment of his imagination.


	2. come morning light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark closes the gap between them, and just like that they’re kissing--eyes closed, hands holding each other, like a flower blooming in winter, like home and warmth and all the things Donghyuck thought he left behind once he stepped foot inside the arena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: character death, mentions of suicide, anxiety attacks, n__n
> 
> hope u enjoy this~~ it's very... hurt/comfort i guess :)) lots of hurting and comforting
> 
> also i wanna say that the careers are not portrayed positively in this fic, they're just characters ok n__n i love my twice bbs and i love jeno n jaemin
> 
> ofc i owe this all to catalystkrish <3

The morning of the Games, Donghyuck gets up and vomits bile into the toilet. Afterwards, during breakfast, he pushes away the food. He doesn’t think he can eat, not right now.  
  
Jinhwan fixes him with a look. “Do you want to die of starvation?” he says finally, pushing the plate of food back towards Donghyuck. “Eat.”  
  
Donghyuck eats. Everything tastes like sawdust in his mouth.  
  
  
Donghyuck can only remember one thing as he faces the cornucopia, waiting for everything to start. Surrounded by landmines, surrounded by people out for his blood, he can only remember Jinhwan tugging on his arm, pulling him in close, and hissing, “Don’t go to the cornucopia unless you have a fucking death wish.”  
  
Donghyuck considers the cornucopia, head tilting slightly. A voice from above announces  _The beginning of the 73rd Hunger Games!_  
  
He sprints forward, grabs the nearest bag from the cornucopia, makes a 180-degree turn and tears away from the chaos. He can hear a faint whistle of a knife as it’s thrown past his ear, just missing him.  
  
Donghyuck runs and runs and  _runs,_  until he finds himself in the middle of a secluded forest. There’s no one around, at least from what he can see and hear.  
  
The package he grabbed is full of ropes and yarns, along with a sharp pair of scissors. Donghyuck runs his fingers over the different strands and fibers, confused, until--  
  
“Hey,” someone says, the voice coming from up above. Donghyuck lets out a shriek, startled. “Wanna trade?”  
  
“What do you have?” Donghyuck asks, trying to contain the way his voice trembles. He peers upward, straining to catch glimpse of a face.  
  
It’s Renjun from Eight, and the tension relaxes out of his body before returning again with full force. He should be afraid of Renjun. He should be afraid of everyone.  
  
“Two knives and food,” Renjun replies. His voice becomes louder and louder with every word, and Donghyuck realizes that he’s climbing down the tree. “I know you have the weaves.”  
  
“The weaves?” Donghyuck asks, confused. Renjun hops to the ground with a soft sigh.  
  
“Yeah, the weaves,” Renjun gestures to the bag. “They--” he breaks off and tilts his head, listening intently. There’s a noise coming from the distance, getting louder and louder by the second. Donghyuck exchanges a glance with him, and within a millisecond of eye contact his message is conveyed.  
  
“Run,” Renjun hisses, darting off in an instant. Donghyuck sprints after him, breathless, legs aching and panic lighting his body on fire.  
  
They stop once they push through a couple of bushes, ending up at a hidden grove next to a dry riverbed.  
  
“As I was saying,” Renjun begins, panting, “the weaves. They’re meant for me.”  
  
Donghyuck gives him a skeptical once-over. “Really?” he asks. Renjun had gotten a solid seven in the performance review, had stuck out a little during his interview, but didn’t strike Donghyuck as someone important enough to get supplies tailor-made for them.  
  
“Yes,” Renjun says shortly. “Sicheng--he knows my brother, Kun. He has--influence.” Ah. Dong Sicheng, victor of last year’s Hunger Games, beautiful and innocent-looking but unusually skilled with a knife.  
  
Donghyuck shrugs. “Alright, I’ll trade.” The food will do him some good, he thinks.  
  
They exchange bags, Renjun observing him silently. It’s a little unnerving, honestly.  
  
“We should be allies,” Renjun says suddenly, apropos of nothing.  
  
Donghyuck frowns. He hadn’t intended on forming a partnership with anyone, aware of the way most of them end--with one tribute killing the other in their sleep. The thought of Renjun killing him, or him killing Renjun, for that matter, seems almost bizarre, though.  
  
“Why?” Donghyuck asks skeptically. “I have nothing I can give you.”  
  
Renjun smiles. “You have supplies, for one,” he says. “And you said you worked on the boats, back at Four. You don’t seem entirely incompetent.”  
  
_Entirely incompetent._ Donghyuck rolls his eyes, smiling. Yeah, maybe--he gives Renjun another up and down look. Maybe having Renjun as an ally will do him some good.  
  
“Fine,” he relents. “You’ll be doing more for me than the other way around, anyway.”  
  
  
It isn’t long before night falls. Renjun and Donghyuck set up what little camp they have and take a couple bites of their supplies. It’s such a jarring contrast from the lavish Capitol food; Donghyuck’s almost glad that he forced down the last breakfast under Jinhwan’s insistence.  
  
They wait in silence until the faces of dead tributes are projected in the sky. There’s Hyerin from Four, both tributes from Five, loads of faces Donghyuck doesn’t remember, people he doesn’t even know. Mark isn’t dead, he thinks, breathing a silent sigh of relief.  
  
“God,” Renjun says, once it’s over. “That was terrible.”  
  
Then they go to sleep. They make camp on the hard ground, sleeping back to back, constantly alert. Donghyuck won’t lie; the warmth of Renjun’s back against his is solidly comforting.  
  
  
The next couple of days pass by in a similar fashion, surviving on as little as possible for as long as possible. No one dies, though, and every night Donghyuck watches the sky with baited breath.  
  
Renjun is easy to be around, Donghyuck finds. He’s wise in ways Donghyuck can’t contemplate and considerate and on the quieter side. When he does speak, it’s either survival-related (“Can we look for food?” he asks) or somewhat confusing (“My brother is… he has cut sleeves,” Renjun says, as if that’s supposed to make any sense). As the days pass, they grow close in a way people only do when spending all of their time together within a short span of days. It’s superficial closeness, maybe, nothing like the years of friendship Donghyuck and Seungkwan-hyung shared, but there are things they know about each other that he’s never told Seungkwan.  
  
Donghyuck only faintly remembers that he’s being filmed, half the time. It’s only when Renjun carefully talks with odd euphemisms or stops in the middle of sentences or takes care not to swear that he actually remembers that his family and everyone else back home is watching him. He tries not to think about it too much, about the way he must look and seem, so hiding and desperate.  
  
After a couple days, a problem presents itself: they’ve started to run out of supplies.  
  
“We’ll have to forage for food,” Renjun says. “It’s fine, we can stick together.”  
  
Renjun seems to know his way around the plants and berries, at least. Most of the things he points out are deadly, but he finds a couple of roots that are edible and a type of berry that isn’t poisonous.  
  
“I don’t know anything about this,” Donghyuck admits, looking around with a sharp eye for the plants Renjun had pointed out. “Four is nothing like this.”  
  
Renjun shrugs. “I would’ve figured, right?” he says. “My parents are artisanal weavers, but sometimes--food was scarce, sometimes.”  
  
Donghyuck nods. “My parents work by the sea,” he says. “So I know how to fish.”  
  
“That ought to be useful,” Renjun muses. He bends down and picks some more plants from the ground. “We can try it, down by the river, tomorrow.”  
  
“Sure,” Donghyuck agrees.  
  
Tomorrow never comes.  
  
  
Donghyuck wakes up the next morning in a panic, Renjun shaking him awake. That’s the first thing he notices. The second thing he notices is the unmistakable smell of smoke in the air, thick and choking.  
  
“It’s a fire,” Renjun whispers. “It’s--I don’t think--we have to run.”  
  
If Donghyuck wasn’t sprinting as fast as he possibly could, maybe he’d make some remark about how Renjun’s always ordering him to run. As it is, he’s following Renjun’s every footstep, the sound of fire crackling and roaring behind him.  
  
They come to the riverbed they passed the first time they met. This time, it isn’t dry; water surges powerfully through the bank, beating against the rocks within the river. And Mark Lee, of all people, is on the other side. What the  _hell--_  
  
“Come on,” Mark says, shouting. “Cross the river, it’s the only way you can escape the fire!”  
  
Renjun looks at the river, troubled. “I… do not know how to swim,” he admits.  
  
Donghyuck tries to think as fast as possible, even though the powerful current of the river seems fast enough to drown someone who does know how to swim.  
  
“I’ll go first,” he says, already starting towards the river. “Mark and me will help you cross.”  
  
Renjun nods. Donghyuck wades into the river.  
  
The first thing he registers is  _cold._  Bone-rattling, mind-numbing cold, the type that makes him feel like he can’t move. It hurts to the point of not hurting, and Donghyuck thinks that maybe this is how he’ll die.  
  
But then he remembers Mark on the other side of the river, Renjun waiting patiently for Donghyuck to help him across. Donghyuck continues against the current, tries as hard as he can to push against the loud, rushing water.  
  
_It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts,_  Donghyuck chants in his head.  _It hurts it hurts it hurts it--_  
  
“Donghyuck, take my hand,” Mark urges, arms outstretched towards Donghyuck. Mark, his fucking savior. It hurts it hurts it hurts, Donghyuck thinks, but he lets Mark pull him out of the water.  
  
“Renjun, come on!” Donghyuck yells. “It’s not that bad, just really cold.” He’s lying, but. Anything for Renjun to cross the river, to let him live.  
  
Something akin to fear passes over Renjun’s face, then peaceful resignation. He stands still, and shakes his head. The fire encroaches on him, closer and closer, orange and bright and hard to look at.  
  
“Renjun,” Donghyuck cries out, more insistent. “Get into the river!” He’s aware of how frantic he sounds, high-pitched and panicking, but he’s also aware he might be leaving his ally--his friend--to the fucking wolves.  
  
Renjun shakes his head again. Fueled by--God, Donghyuck doesn’t even know what, he just knows that Renjun has to live, the fuck--he jumps back into the river, wading towards Renjun.  
  
“Come on, come on!” Donghyuck shouts, struggling to stay upright in the current. “Don’t do this, please.”  
  
“What the hell!” Mark shouts, agitated. “Donghyuck, come back!”  
  
Renjun steps closer to the river, only to throw his bag of supplies at Donghyuck. He catches it, confused.  
  
“Renjun, why--” he’s cut off as the roar of the fire reach its peak, a raging, grumbling inferno. The fire swirls at Renjun’s feet, then climbs upwards, bright and dazzling.  
  
Donghyuck shuts his eyes and screams. “Renjun!” he shrieks as loud as he can, taking a blind step forward. He stumbles under the weight of the current, numb and so,  _so_  cold, but the ongoing mantra of  _it hurts it hurts it hurts_  within his head has nothing, nothing on what he’s witnessing.  
  
A cannon booms, but Donghyuck barely hears it. There’s a splash in the water behind him, and he faintly registers the feeling of someone grabbing his arm and dragging him roughly to the side of the river. Then, those same arms hoist him up and out of the water, clinging onto him. It’s only until he’s being cradled in someone’s arms that Donghyuck realizes that it was Mark.  
  
“What the hell is your problem?” Mark bites out, furious. “Do you have a death wish?”  
  
Donghyuck is almost scared, for a second--scared that Mark will pull out a weapon and kill him, the way he’s seen in many Games past. But the anxious edge to Mark’s voice reminds him of the way Jinhwan would pull him aside and hiss advice into his ear, the protectiveness always so well-hidden within anger.  
  
Donghyuck doesn’t reply, just nestles his head in the crook of Mark’s neck. He’s starting to slowly regain feeling in his body, and all he feels is cold. It hurts it hurts it hurts, he thinks. He’s trembling, gasping cries coming from his chest.  
  
“Hey, it’s okay,” Mark murmurs, but instead of comforting he sounds almost--frantic. “You’re here, you’re safe. You’re here, you’re safe.” Donghyuck relaxes into him, and they hold each other, soaked and dripping, for a long, long time.  
  
  
Eventually, Mark drags him up and they stumble over to where Mark’s been sleeping for the past couple of days. He’s got a lot more supplies than Donghyuck, and the sight of it brings another bout of fear within Donghyuck. Mark must’ve gotten all those supplies from the cornucopia, he must’ve survived the bloodbath, he must’ve _killed_ people--  
  
Without thinking, he reaches into Renjun’s bag and pulls out the pair of scissors, holding it up in the air.  
  
Mark looks at him, eyebrows raised. “You going to kill me with that?” he asks. He looks disappointed. Unbidden, a wave of shame washes over Donghyuck.  
  
“I--no,” Donghyuck says, stumbling. “I thought--maybe--” he breaks off. “You have so many supplies,” he notes weakly. “How?”  
  
Mark looks sheepish. “I took them,” he says, smile self-deprecating. “From the Careers. I--I might not be good at killing, but I’m not too bad at sneaking around.”  
  
At his last sentence, Donghyuck remembers the night they had snuck around, kissing on the rooftop. How far away it seems, now, yet how close Mark is to him.  
  
As a distraction, Donghyuck looks inside the bag Renjun had tossed to him in his last moments. The weaves that he had traded for.  
  
Mark joins his side, looking at the different threads and yarns. There’s a clear expression of wonder on his face, the same way he had looked after watching Donghyuck sing. Donghyuck wants to capture that expression and hide it in his chest, safe and warm.  
  
They sort through the bag while waiting for the nightly death toll. Renjun had been working on creating some sort of rope, multi-colored and strong. Donghyuck runs his hands over the strong, neat knots; they’re similar to the fishing knots he had learned to tie back home.  
  
“Donghyuck,” Mark whispers. He places his hand next to Donghyuck’s and sighs audibly. “Your hands are shaking.”  
  
He’s still shaking by the time Renjun’s face appears in the sky. It’s an official photo, severe-looking. It’s nothing close to what little Donghyuck knew of him. There are three other tributes whose faces appear in the sky, but Donghyuck remembers none of it.  
  
Mark urges them to sleep quickly, in between two trees. They don’t bother trying to eat; Donghyuck knows he wouldn’t be able to stomach it anyway.  
  
“Wait,” Mark says suddenly, as they’re getting ready to lie down on the forest floor. “Our clothes--we won’t be able to sleep.”  
  
Donghyuck glances down at his wet shirt and shrugs. He’s still too numb to register much of anything.  
  
Mark shrugs off his own shirt, tossing it over a branch so that it hangs over. “So that it dries,” he says, looking over at Donghyuck expectantly. His back’s to Donghyuck, shoulders curled inward on himself protectively. It’s obvious he’s self-conscious of the way he looks, not that he needs to be.  
  
“Okay,” Donghyuck says, taking off his own shirt and tossing it to Mark. He sucks in his stomach, an almost automatic instinct, and avoids Mark’s eyes. He doesn’t want to know what Mark thinks of him, in that moment.  
  
But when he looks over, he finds Mark staring at the ground, cheeks pink. Mark’s got broad shoulders and soft edges, and no, Donghyuck doesn’t stare.  
  
They lie back to back, unable to fall asleep.  
  
“I know I should get used to this,” Donghyuck says, “But I guess it wasn’t real for me until--” he breaks off. _Until I saw Renjun die right in front of my fucking eyes,_  he completes in his head.  
  
“You guys were allies, right?” Mark asks, softly. His back is warm against Donghyuck’s.  
  
“Yeah,” Donghyuck replies. He holds a hand out in front of his face, and he can make out the vague silhouette of it, black and quivering in front of his eyes. He closes his eyes. “He helped me more than I helped him, and I couldn’t even--reciprocate when it really counted.”  
  
Mark’s silent for a couple of moments. “I don’t think--it wasn’t your fault,” he says.  
  
Empty words, and it reminds Donghyuck of his grandfather’s funeral. He clenches his hands into fists.  
  
“I found him up on the rooftop, once,” Mark says haltingly. “The first night in the Capitol, he was up there, and he was--he was--you know.”  
  
Donghyuck tenses. “But you can’t,” he says, hushed. “There are nets and everything, so you can’t.”  
  
“I think he realized that, soon enough,” Mark replies quietly.  
  
Donghyuck shakes silently as Mark’s breathing begins to steady, almost approaching sleep. Somehow, knowing this about Renjun has made everything worse, and his mind keeps spiralling between the fact that Renjun tried to kill himself, and succeeded, and Donghyuck had sat on that same ledge and accepted that he was going to die, and he didn’t believe it, but now he truly does, he really does. Now he knows he’s counting the days until his own image is broadcast onto the fake sky of the Arena, and fuck, why does he keep shaking, he just wants to  _sleep--_  
  
“I was going to sleep,” Mark grumbles drowsily from behind him. “Come on, sit up.” Donghyuck mirrors his movements, sitting up tiredly.  
  
Suddenly, a pair of hands grab around Donghyuck’s waist, roughly manhandling him into Mark’s lap. For a single, terrifying moment, Donghyuck is afraid Mark is going to kill him.  
  
“What the hell?” Donghyuck protests, still stiff. Mark laughs quietly, muffled into Donghyuck’s neck. It makes him feel safe, despite himself.  
  
“Relax,” Mark says, wrapping his arms around Donghyuck. “Stop--shaking. We should catch some sleep for at least a few hours, right?”  
  
“I guess,” Donghyuck says hesitantly, leaning back slowly. Mark is warm and soft, his chest broad and inviting. He smells like dirt and skin and sweat.  
  
It still takes a while for him to relax, though. The only reason Donghyuck feels reassured to sleep is the press of his scissors against his thighs.  
  
  
Donghyuck wakes up to a loud, bone-chilling scream. “Help!” the voice cries. It must be one of the boy tributes, close to their death; Donghyuck puts his hands over his ears and screws his eyes shut.  
  
Then, he’s unceremoniously shoved out of Mark’s lap, tumbling to the ground. Donghyuck turns to glare at him, maybe say _What the actual hell,_  but Mark’s already up on his feet and running towards the screaming.  
  
Then, another voice. Another male tribute, Donghyuck thinks, even though he doesn’t really recognize either voices. What kind of torture are the Careers up to?  
  
Mark’s hysterical once Donghyuck catches up to him, searching through the woods frantically. He’s calling out names, ones he doesn’t recognize. “Jaehyun?” Mark shrieks, tremulous. “Hansol?”  
  
Donghyuck only realizes once Taeyong Lee’s voice is added to the mix, the frenzied chorus of pleas for help and cries of pain. Oh my god, he thinks.  
  
He steps up to Mark, tries to lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Mark, it isn’t, I don’t think--”  
  
Mark slaps away Donghyuck's hand and gasps for breath, aching cries that rasp out of his chest. “Where are you--I know they have you, I know, I know--I, I can’t--I can’t--I can’t breathe!” he says.  
  
Donghyuck tries again, grabbing Mark by the shoulders and pulling him in close. Mark struggles against it, fingers scratching at the front of Donghyuck’s chest and fuck, he really needs to put a shirt on. Still, Donghyuck maintains his hold on Mark--it’s what his sister had always done for him; it worked back then, and it works now.  
  
“It isn’t real,” Donghyuck hisses into Mark’s ear. “It isn’t real, it isn’t real, it’s not real.” The struggling slows, then finally stops. The voices are still screaming their heads off.  
  
Mark sobs against Donghyuck’s chest, shuddering with the force of his cries. Donghyuck can feel Mark’s hot tears sliding down his skin.  
  
“It sounds real,” he says into Donghyuck’s chest. “It sounds like--like they’re right here, with us. Like they got reaped too.”  _Like they ended up like Renjun,_  Mark doesn’t say, but Donghyuck understands.  
  
“Shh,” Donghyuck murmurs. “If we’re too loud, somebody will find us.” Mark nods, head buried into Donghyuck’s neck.  
  
Slowly, the cries begin to fade out. Just as slowly, the two of them make it back to where they were camping.  
  
Donghyuck didn’t register it before, but it’s still pretty dark out, only a little bit of morning light shining through. They probably only got a couple hours of sleep, he thinks mournfully.  
  
Donghyuck puts his shirt back on, then hands Mark his shirt. Mark stares at it blankly. The tear tracks on his face are as bright as day in the Arena-simulated moonlight.  
  
Donghyuck sighs. “So I’m taking care of you now, huh?” he says absent-mindedly, stepping close to Mark. “Come on, arms up.” He nudges Mark’s arms, giving him a soft pat on the shoulder when he complies.  
  
Mark’s got nice shoulders, Donghyuck thinks as he slides the shirt over Mark’s head. Mark’s got a nice everything.  
  
Mark hangs his head, arms dropping limp to his sides. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “It was--I couldn’t--”  
  
“It was no problem,” Donghyuck reassures. “Especially after what you did for me, uh. After, after--”  
  
“Yeah,” Mark cuts in. He looks exhausted, drooping as he stands. “Sleep for an hour or two?”  
  
“Yeah,” Donghyuck agrees. And, because he can’t help it, he tacks on, “Are we allies?”  
  
Mark gives him a look from where he’s lounging on the ground, eyes blinking sleepily. “What do you think?” he replies.  
  
Donghyuck doesn’t know what he thinks. They’ve witnessed someone’s death with each other. They’ve comforted each other. They’ve kissed each other.  
  
Will they kill each other, too?  
  
Would he be able to do it?  
  
Donghyuck turns it in his mind for a half-second, pictures the look of disappointment that would cross Mark’s face in the throes of death, and firmly shoves that thought away. Instead, he lies down restlessly by Mark’s side, waiting for the morning to come.  
  
  
They move camp somewhere up the river. Once again, the riverbed is dry, rocks and straggly plants covering the surface.  
  
“Water’ll come, eventually,” Mark says, when he finds Donghyuck staring.  
  
They forage for food together, the same way Renjun and Donghyuck had subsided off of plants and berries. It isn’t much--Donghyuck knows they’re going to have to start hunting down meat, somehow--but it’s enough to tide them over, for now.  
  
They’re mostly silent as they step through the woods, afraid of attracting attention from other tributes, but Donghyuck is aware of every move Mark takes out of the corner of his eye. He isn’t scared, he’s just--worrying. Worried that Mark will burn up in flames the way Renjun had.  
  
They crouch over their meagre midday meal and eat as slow as possible, hidden by the shade of two trees.  
  
This is the first time he’s been so close to Mark in broad daylight, and Donghyuck savors it the way he had reveled in his first bites of Capitol food. He takes in the curve of Mark’s neck, gaze sliding down to Mark’s shoulders, his collarbones.  
  
“You’re staring,” Mark notes, between bites of a root. “Is there something on my face?”  
  
“Yes,” Donghyuck says, rolling his eyes. Then, because he can’t help it, he reaches out and brushes away an imaginary speck of dirt on Mark’s cheek. “There, it’s gone now.”  
  
Mark knows he’s lying, and Donghyuck knows that he knows, and they smile at each other sheepishly for a couple of seconds.  
  
Suddenly, Donghyuck realizes his hand is lingering on Mark’s cheek. Face burning, he removes his hand, looking down at the berries they gathered. He can hear Mark laughing breathlessly.  
  
“Who were those, the voices, I mean?” Donghyuck asks, desperate to shift the subject away from his own embarrassment.  
  
Mark sobers up quickly. “One was my brother,” he says, biting down on his lower lip. “Um, you know Taeyong.”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Donghyuck nods. Taeyong Lee, who had seemed so charming and handsome during his interviews, who was a beautiful, silent killer at night. Taeyong Lee, who has the heart of the Capitol in his hand, even now. Taeyong Lee, who could do nothing when his brother was reaped.  
  
“Then there was Jaehyun, and--and Hansol,” Mark lets out a breathy sigh at that. “Jaehyun, he’s, his real name is Yoonoh, but everyone calls him Jaehyun back home.”  
  
Ah. Yoonoh Jung, who Taeyong had breathlessly volunteered for within an instant, his best friend.   
  
“Oh,” Donghyuck says. “You’re close with Yoonoh?”  
  
Mark nods. His lips have started to bleed again. “He took care of me, during--while Taeyong was in the arena,” he says. “We watched the Games together. He’s--he’s family, really.”  
  
“And Hansol?” Donghyuck prompts. Mark straightens up at the mention of his name.  
  
“Oh, Hansol! He’s the one who taught me how to code, actually--he’s one of my brother’s friends, too, and I’ve learned so much from him. I’m gonna--I was going to,” he corrects, deflating a bit, “apprentice under his father and everything after school ended.”  
  
Donghyuck hesitates, then slings an arm around Mark’s shoulder, pulling him in close. “Sounds like you had a lot of hyungs, huh?” he says lightly. “What about a friend your own age?”  
  
Mark shoves at him, playful. “Hey!” he protests. “I so do have friends my age.” He pauses, then adds, “What’s a  _hyung_?”  
  
Donghyuck forgets, sometimes, that the other districts don’t share the same culture, if this barely-used societal construct can even be called culture.  
  
He shrugs. “It’s like…” he trails off, trying to figure out how to explain it. “It’s a sign of respect, for your elders. Not, like, your parents, but--brothers. It’s like calling them family.” Donghyuck feels self-conscious, explaining himself, explaining an antiquated part of his family’s past. He imagines Jisung and Chenle, poised in front of their Capitol screens, and feels a little--not sad, really, but just odd.  
  
Mark listens raptly, fascinated. “So,” he begins, “Since I’m a year older than you, would you call me hyung?”  
  
Donghyuck leans in and smiles. “Do you want me to?” he counters. It’s so satisfying to watch the blush bloom on Mark’s cheeks, so satisfying to forget, even just for a moment.  
  
Only seconds later, they hear footsteps coming through the woods.  
  
They freeze in fear and stop talking immediately; Donghyuck hopes and hopes and hopes, more than anything, that the bushes they were eating behind are enough to cover their bodies.  
  
It’s multiple footsteps, loud and unrepentant, and Donghyuck knows, without a doubt, who they belong to.  
  
Sure enough, it’s Jaemin from Two who says, “Then who the fuck stole from our stash?” in his usual confident drawl.  
  
“How the  _fuck_ would I know?” Chaeyoung replies, frustrated. The sound of her stomping angrily on a couple twigs startles Mark. Donghyuck turns his head as little as is humanly possible and shakes his head subtly.  
  
“What I don’t understand is why we didn’t notice the lapse in supplies earlier,” Jeno says mildly. He’s surprisingly soft-spoken for a Career.  
  
“I think finding out who it is is more important,” Tzuyu says.  
  
“Yeah,” Chaeyoung agrees menacingly. “So we can find them and kill them.”  
  
Donghyuck shudders involuntarily. God, she’s just as scary as her mother.  
  
“Who do you think it might be?” Jaemin asks.  
  
Fear runs through Donghyuck’s body again, except this time it’s so much worse.  _Not Mark not Mark not Mark,_  he chants in his head.  
  
“Maybe Jieqiong, from Eight?” Tzuyu suggests.  
  
“Yeah, she looks like a snitch,” Chaeyoung snickers.  
  
Donghyuck isn’t entirely sure how someone can look like a snitch, but he’s thankful for it anyway as the Careers set off in the opposite direction, in search of Jieqiong. He breathes out a steady sigh of relief as soon as their footsteps subside.  
  
“Damn,” he remarks quietly, smiling over at Mark. “That was close, huh?”  
  
Mark doesn’t smile back. His eyes are wide and troubled as he frowns at the ground; he looks so young. “I can’t believe,” he says. “I just killed her, didn’t I?”  
  
Donghyuck winces. “ _They_  killed her. Will kill her, I mean.”  
  
Mark looks close to tears, so Donghyuck swings an arm over his shoulder again.  
  
“Why don’t you tell me more about your friends back home?” he suggests. “The ones who are your age, I mean. If they even exist.”  
  
Mark cracks a smile at that. “They do exist,” he insists. “There’s Chan, and Hansol Choi, and--”  
  
“Tell me about them,” Donghyuck interrupts. “I want to know.”  
  
Mark’s eyes brighten as he describes his life in Three, his days spent coding with his friends and writing outside and playing with his older brother. It’s obvious there are things he skips over, no doubt aware of the Capitol audience.  
  
Donghyuck wonders what the Capitol thinks of Mark now, what the Capitol thinks of the two of them, allies together. It’s hard to think that everyone in Panem saw both of them break down on their television screens, at their worst possible moments.  
  
  
At night, Jieqiong’s face is broadcasted in the sky. They’re more careful after that; when Mark lies down to sleep, Donghyuck sits by his side, on lookout for anyone who might be prowling through the night.  
  
He’s alert for the first couple of hours, but starts relaxing into it after some time. He knows he’s supposed to wake Mark after a while so they can trade places, but he likes seeing Mark’s face in sleep.  
  
He seems so young, soft and innocent as he sleeps. Donghyuck watches Mark’s face twist up, the way his brows furrow, and looks away. Donghyuck feels--he doesn’t know what he feels.  
  
Mark wakes up with a startled gasp a while later. It still isn’t morning yet, the sky dark and moonlit.  
  
Donghyuck looks at him curiously. “Sleep well?” he asks. He can barely make out the shadows behind Mark’s face.  
  
“I don’t--I don’t know,” Mark admits. He sits up next to Donghyuck, clearly unsettled. “It was a dream--I think it was home, and we were all happy.” He frowns, as if this is something he isn’t used to.  
  
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Donghyuck says, considering. He nudges Mark, gently. “What’s the issue?”  
  
“You were gone,” Mark says. “Or--I just had this sense, that you didn’t exist. Maybe you were dead, I don’t know, it was just so odd.” He shudders. “I hated it.”  
  
Donghyuck smiles at that, even though he can feel himself thinking we’re gonna have to live without each other, or not at all. He pushes aside the dark thoughts within, leans closer to Mark.  
  
“You just can’t live without me, huh?” he teases, tapping Mark on the nose. “Cute.”  
  
Mark looks at him, considering. Their faces are close enough that Donghyuck can make out every detail, glowing in the moonlight.  
  
“D’you wanna?” Mark mumbles quietly. He tilts his head, as if it is a secret code. As if there’s anything to keep secret in front of so many cameras.  
  
“Yeah,” Donghyuck replies. “Yeah, I do.”  
  
Mark closes the gap between them, and just like that they’re kissing--eyes closed, hands holding each other, like a flower blooming in winter, like home and warmth and all the things Donghyuck thought he left behind once he stepped foot inside the arena.  
  
They’re kissing, and it’s the best thing Donghyuck’s ever had in his short sixteen years, and he holds onto Mark as much as he possibly can, knowing that there will come a day when Mark’s out of reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think so far~~ <3
> 
> if you read this i love you
> 
> and, btw, when i mean ambiguous pairings i mean "if u think it's gay, it's most likely gay"
> 
> also yes i used a chinese euphemism :) we learned abt it in history actually

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what u think so far!! honestly this is all catalystkrish's fault, without her i wouldn't have thought of this haha
> 
> if you read this ily <333
> 
> support nct


End file.
